


Recover

by irisbleufic



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Arguing, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bickering, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Conflict Resolution, Drift Hangover, Eavesdropping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hong Kong, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, Jewish Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), M/M, Masturbation, Medical, Medical Examination, Medical Professionals, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Painkillers, Post-Canon, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Drift, Post-Movie(s), Recovery, Resolved Sexual Tension, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You're my new favorite blanket.  Come inside?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recover

**Author's Note:**

> Around six months ago, during a conversation with [**bowlingforgerbils**](http://bowlingforgerbils.tumblr.com), I tossed around the idea that has essentially become this story. However, I deferred it because _**[Parallax / Perihelion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1340266)**_ called for an opening scene in the same physical setting as the opening of this piece, and I wanted to space them out sufficiently that by the time I got back to this one, I'd be looking at a medical context with fresh eyes. There's no injury in this story more serious than you see them sustain in the film, although I would say it's taking a look at the more literal cut-scrape-and-fracture variety alongside the hesitation of how to break new-relationship ice without fucking up. This is a stand-alone, although you'll notice that the backstories I established for each of them in [**_Anthology_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1075605) very much apply here (as you can assume they do for all N/H fic I've written or may yet write).

Newton feels strangely vulnerable, even _exposed_ , as he peels out of his torn, filthy jeans and drops them on top of his boots and socks.

It's not like he's ever been _that_ nervous about stripping down before being poked with clinical concern by medical professionals, not even the time Ken, in a panic, rushed him to the emergency room at MGH because he'd spilled something unspeakable down the front of his shirt during one of their grad school all-nighters.

As Newton loosens his tie, still reeling with a head full of Hermann's memories and the fact that they _should_ be at the massive kegger that's taking place in LOCCENT, he vaguely wonders if Hermann can remember _for_ him. He drops his tie onto the pile and lets out a choked laugh, sets in on his shirt buttons. He can hear the usual-suspect RN busybody outside.

"Are you doing all right in there, Doctor Geiszler?" asks Officer Hak. "Ready?"

"Just a sec," he mutters, biting back a curse as his casual shrug for purposes of dislodging his sleeves sets the right side of his body—wrist, shoulder, ribcage—on fire. He drops his shirt on the pile, wheezing, and braces himself against the exam table. " _Uh_. Okay. Gown. Let me—"

"Do you need assistance?" Officer Hak says, hesitation in her voice. "Are you in pain?"

"No, um," Newton says, but the truth is that all signs point to clavicle contusion, sprained wrist, and at least two cracked ribs. "Really, Ada. Got a lot of scratches, though. I'm fine."

"Officer," she reminds him patiently, but there's humor in her tone. "Get your butt out here."

"Where's Hermann?" he asks, swallowing a groan as he struggles to get his arms through the offensively drab garment and yank the ties in front as tight as they'll go. No _way_ is he ditching his briefs, though, for somebody who sounds more like his kid sister right now (if only he'd _had_ one) than a hard-ass, PPDC-trained medical professional. He puts on the cheap fuzzy footie-things, which also hurts because it entails bending over, and steps out in front of her with a grimace.

"Hey, Doctor," she whispers, grinning blackly, "you look _good_. Wanna show him, is that it?"

"Oh, very funny," Newton replies. "Ha fucking _ha_. Are you gonna EKG this shit or what?"

"Yep," says Officer Hak, and leads him toward an exam room he has, by the grace of some horrific elder deity he's _sure_ , never set foot in before. "But _first_ I'll X-ray your behind until I'm sure you haven't fractured something to hell and back, my friend, because I don't like how you're moving."

 _Great_ , Newton thinks, arranging himself on the paper-covered exam table she's indicated with a wave of her broad, glove-sheathed hand. She's six-foot two and can _(Could_? he wonders, is _that_ the proper tense now, and his heart sinks another inevitable notch) out-shoot the Wei brothers on any court in the dome. He hates the lead-weighted cover she lays over him like a burial breast-plate; it bears down on his chest just enough to be uncomfortable, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"God _damn_ it," she says, bringing the machine's arm down and adjusting it next to his right shoulder. "Talk to me, Geiszler. You need me to take it off? One finger for yes, two for—"

"Where's Hermann?" he asks again, his voice cracking, and that's the moment he blacks out.

When Newton wakes up, he's back on the cot next to which he'd left his filthy clothes, and there are four people looking down at him wearing varying shades of worry. One of them, the one who's seated and leaning close and a sheer fucking _relief_ to finally set eyes on, is holding his hand.

"The good news is," says Officer Hak, standing at Hermann's elbow, "I got all the snaps while you were out. The bad news is, you've cracked five, six, and seven on the right-hand side, and I'm sure your collarbone bruise on the same side isn't helping. No fractures anywhere else, but the hand and wrist sprain is somewhere between Grade 1 and Grade 2, so we're Velcro-bracing that business once Doctor Gottlieb here has gotten you both cleaned up. Any questions?"

Newton opens his mouth to protest, tries to sit up, but it's Tendo whose hand comes down on his chest and just rests there, fingers splayed as he takes another sip from the beer bottle he's got white-knuckled in his other hand. Next to Tendo, Herc's got his arms folded across his chest and looks like somebody's kicked his overgrown puppy along with everything else. Newton gives him a nod.

"Sir," he says, brushing off Tendo's hand with his left; his right one hurts too much, and, in any case, it's the one Hermann's got clasped between his own like it's some fragile relic. "Sorry."

"There you go," Tendo remarks, holding out the beer and waving it under Herc's nose. "No amnesia, because he remembers shooting off his mouth. Maybe consider _not_ writing him up?"

"Would you leave us _alone_ , please?" asks Hermann, and Newton realizes Hermann's eyes have never once left his face. He focuses, lets that fact anchor him, and Hermann cradles his hand.

Once they've all left, Newton asks, "You should _also_ be in bed. If you're hurt, dude, I swear—"

" _I_ swear that if you don't shut your mouth and comply with Officer Hak's orders, we'll both be on lockdown here till the end of the month," Hermann sighs, carefully laying Newton's right hand back down at his side on the cot, taking hold of his upper arm instead. "Do you think you can sit up?"

"I can walk and everything, did you miss that part?" Newton gripes and, yeah, this is fucking _great_ , sits up way too fast. "You must've hit your head after all," he says, realizing just how much breathing _sucks_ at this particular point in time. "Let me guess, we're supposed to shower?"

"Unless you remain fond of _eau de viscera_ , I suggest we do as she says," Hermann snaps.

Stripping for Hermann while  _he's_ already stark naked and cursing at the shower controls isn't necessarily the weird part of this situation; he's behind the curtain and has an iron grip on the safety-bar that's thankfully installed in there and Newton's blinking at Hermann's discarded gown and footie-things on the bench just inside the stall and thinking, _He took off his skivvies, really?_

" _Aha_!" exclaims Hermann, in exhausted triumph. "Hot, but it won't keep. Get a move on."

"Keep your pants on," Newton mutters, stepping inside, finding he's been pulled into Hermann's waiting arms. "Or, you know, _not_. I bet Officer Carroll liked that. It's been ages since he's seen—"

"Kindly cease slandering our co-workers," Hermann sighs, producing a palmful of industrial grade antibacterial-body-wash-masked-as-shampoo crap from the dispenser, "and let me wash your hair."

To be dead honest, it's nice being this close to Hermann after all they've been through in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe _too_ nice. Hermann's all hyper-focused, competent business as he scrubs as much of Newton down as decency seems to allow; Newton wants to fold into him, cling for dear existence as Hermann scrubs his back, but he can't even get that close because Hermann is good at maintaining sufficient distance. Hermann eventually nods and turns his back, gets down to business scrubbing his own arms, and Newton finds it tough to wash the bits of himself Hermann's neglected because they are, curse them, _interested_ in the proceedings, but too tired to do anything about it.

Not that he's been feasting his eyes or anything, but it would take an idiot not to notice that Hermann isn't just long limbs and bony angles. He's thinking about this when he braces his left arm against the wall under the spray and rests his forehead against it, starting to drift off. He's thinking about this when Hermann, apparently done washing, wraps both arms around him from behind but doesn't tug him in _quite_ close enough to feel anything important. The water stops; Newton shivers.

"Ada nipped in and left towels," says Hermann, gently, helping Newton step out. "I heard her."

Newton nods, yawning, trying to help Hermann keep his balance just as Hermann is helping _him_ while they re-dress in their pitiful regulation exam attire. "They'll keep us overnight, won't they?"

"Longer if they can manage it," Hermann agrees, his cane in one hand, Newton's injured arm grasped lightly in the other. "Now, I've got to get you back to bed for your painkillers and your wrist-brace," he says, lips twitching slightly, "or mother shall be _very_ cross with us indeed."

" _Shhh_ ," Newton warned, trailing along after Hermann in a half-aroused, half-exhausted fog. "Don't give her any ideas, and don't let Herc hear you, either. He'd hate it if somebody usurped his . . . "

Words cease to be important. Words don't matter when you have somebody you trust leading you by the arm, don't matter when there's a cot with sheets that seem softer than before, don't matter when somebody else you _also_ trust is there to shove a couple of pills between your lips and lift a plastic demitasse of water to your lips and say, _Sleep. He's right next to you, right through here_.

Newton doesn't remember where he is when his eyes open next, not right away, but it's Hermann's muted not-quite-snore through the fabric curtain that reminds him. It's dark in the medical bay, dark as _fuck_ , but he can hear whispering somewhere any number of partitions away and make out Ada's voice forming the sounds of _Mori_ and _Becket_ and _those complete lunatics_.

So words matter again: that's a relief. He'd probably been out for hours, and Hermann's _still_ out.

 _This might not be the best time for a re-hash_ , he tells himself, but Percocet, even in generic form, is a bitch. He tries to rub his eyes with both hands, but the brace puts a damper on that, so he settles for rubbing his left hand all over his face and squeezing his eyes shut till he sees lazy, strobe-light shades of purple, green, and blue. _You know what you saw in there through the blur of the rest,_ he thinks, and he's responding in the worst possible way; the best he can do is fish one of the polyurethane gloves (bless Ada) out of the supplies-caddy right next to his cot, get the damn thing into position, and pray. _You only got the slightest glimpse before sanity yanked you back out._

Beneath the thin sheet and blanket covering him, Newton's worked his left hand up under the gown, which has bunched around his thighs. Hermann hadn't got him back into his briefs after their shower, and he'd been too tired to protest. He's exhausted, tripping balls, and _his body remembers_. He works himself with clumsy, uncoordinated strokes, trying to keep the glove in place, to hold onto that flash of unmitigated _lust_ that had spiked off Hermann before they'd pitched back into blue-black grime and acid-bitten air. He hopes there's love there, sure, that too. He _hopes_.

Newton shudders and comes, breathless, curling his toes helplessly into the worn sheets.

From the other side of the curtain, there's Hermann's voice: "Newton, are you all _right_?"

 _No_ , Newton thinks bitterly, his thoughts clouded by post-orgasm haze and the ache in his collarbone and in his ribs.  _I want you naked next to me and your mouth on mine and I want you to fucking hold me while my pulse tries to find its way back to normal. I want you to bring me some water._  
  
"No," he manages, tying off the glove as quietly as he can manage and dropping it into the trash can next to his cot.  "I'm so thirsty I could die, these blankets are shitty, and I'm freaking _cold_."

The rustling next door could mean Hermann's looking around for the summon-an-orderly buzzer Ada had left for him (she'd left one for Newton, too, but damned if he knows where it is), but what it turns out to mean is that Hermann has gotten up, fetched what's left of his water from the stand next to _his_ cot, and has proceeded to draw aside the curtain and step through. Newton drinks obediently when the cup's held to his lips, terrified that Hermann's sharp sense of smell and a glance at the trash will give him away, but the most Hermann does next is sigh, set it aside, and prop his cane against the stand. "Move over," he murmurs, lifting the covers. "On your left side. _There_."

Hermann climbs in and spoons behind him without a thought; Newton's drug-and-hormone addled brain sends a warm, startled flush through his skin. He's back to exhausted, though, back to the point of wanting to do nothing more about this for now than tug Hermann's arm tight around his waist and revel in Hermann's soft, even breaths against his neck. Something stirs outside.  
  
"I can't leave you two alone for even a few hours, is that it?" Ada asks, likely peering in at them, and Newton's response is to close his eyes and turn his face into the pillow. He can feel the turn of Hermann's head, though, and hear Ada's intake of breath before she makes a fast retreat.

That'll be the trademark Gottlieb Death-Glare in action. Newton's never been more grateful.

"Rest now," Hermann whispers, moving his hand from the middle of Newton's chest down to his hip, and then shifting it back up again—as if uncertain, or unwilling. "Are you warm enough?"

In his post-orgasm haze (and otherwise altered state), Newton can almost imagine that this is comforting, post-coital bliss and that they'll do it all over again in the morning. He nods.

At least it doesn’t take long for the endorphins to settle. Soon enough, he sleeps.

 

*

 

They're discharged after another day of testing and another night of occupying the same cot in spite of Officer Hak's protests.  Mako and Raleigh, a.k.a. Team Big Damn Heroes, had gotten out even before Team K-Sci Rock Stars.  Newton rails about it until Hermann, doing his impression of a grumpy escort, dumps Newton off at his quarters and tells him to stay in bed for the love of _God_. 

When Newton finds the nerve to ask _which one_ , Hermann slams the door in his face and leaves.

 _I need you_ , he thinks groggily, shambling over to his bed, collapsing on it as carefully as he can. His uninjured limbs ache, and every breath hurts. _You're my new favorite blanket.  Come inside?_

He's still high on painkillers (oxycodone and acetaminophen for the win) and sleeps for most of the rest of that day.  This solitude is eventually punctuated by Tendo bringing him some toast, fruit, and water around one in the afternoon.  Tendo lets himself in like he owns the place, which means Herc has given him run of the master key again.  Newton groans and rubs his eyes, watching Tendo set out the spartan repast with ruthless efficiency on Newton's desk. He swivels in Newton's chair.

"Who's shoving food down Hermann's throat?" Newton asks, sitting up with some effort.  "Ada?"  
  
"Nope," says Tendo, poking a straw into the little hermetically sealed cup of water.  "The Marshall.  Sucks to be him.  Are you gonna make me force-feed you, or do you think you can cooperate?"

Newton swings his legs over the side of the bed so he's sitting face to face with Tendo, who grins and hands him the water. He sucks it down grudgingly, watching Tendo spread butter on raisin toast that's probably gone cold. Tendo takes away the empty water cup and puts a half-slice of toast in Newton's hand, fixing Newton with a stern look until he forces himself to swallow a few bites.

"What did you do, work your way up from grunt-hood in Medical?" he retorts, taking another.

"You're a cranky little shit," Tendo informs him, holding out a bunch of grapes. Newton finds that pretty funny, suggests with one raised eyebrow that Tendo ought to feed him. "Hermann's worried sick about you, brother, did you know that? You should've seen him right after—"

"I _did_ , you dick," Newton mutters, chewing on some grapes. "I wasn't so far gone."

"No joke," Tendo replies, eyeing him with obvious worry. "You're worse on pills than on drift hangover. Only take that stuff as long as you absolutely need it, or you'll end up like my mom."

"Then get her out of the goddamn garden already," Newton says, slumping against his pillow.

"Dream on," replies Tendo, leaning forward to pat Newton's thigh. "She lives for those tomatoes."

"I think I'm gonna puke on you if you don't get the rest of that out of here," says Newton, wearily.

"You ate enough to reassure me you won't die of starvation, so there's that," Tendo says, putting everything back on the tray as he gets to his feet. "Go back to bed. I'll make sure you get dinner."

"Thanks, man," Newton says to the ceiling, his head spinning. "You are _actually_ the best _._ "

"I'll tell Al you said that," Tendo replies, grinning. "Behave yourself," he adds as he leaves.

Newton can't remember his dreams when he wakes up, but he has the disconcerting sense he's had like four of them in quick, nonsensical succession and that Hermann's been in every one of them. There's somebody pounding on his door, he _hasn't_ been sick all over his pillow, _and_ . . .

"There is _no excuse_ for this behavior!" Hermann is raging. "Absolutely _none_! Now, if you don't pry yourself off the mattress this _instant_ , I shall fetch the Marshall or Officer Hak, and _then_ —"

Newton glances at the clock and then back at the door, which rattles violently with each of Hermann's successive blows. "Tendo was here like four hours ago!" he yells helpfully at Hermann, only to find he's hissing in pain as he props himself up against the headboard. "I didn't hear him lock the door on his way out, you propriety-obsessed _lunatic_! The door's open! Just _come in_!"

Outside, the corridor falls deafeningly silent. It's three or four lengthy, _priceless_ seconds before the door slowly swings inward and Hermann's doing his absolute best to look cool as you please as he swans in with a plastic bag full of who-knows-what. Looks like trays of pre-made sushi from the refectory, and, fuck, that's _treat_ food, so Newton feels slightly guilty for shouting at him.

"Past propriety or not," Hermann sniffs, helping himself to Newton's chair just as Tendo had done, "civility _does_ have its uses." He pulls out the sushi and makes a hash of separating the two sets of wooden chopsticks, determinedly not meeting Newton's eyes. "Forgive me. I was concerned."

"Um," Newton manages, accepting one of the trays and sets of utensils from Hermann. "Not a problem. You're right. S'all good. What were we talking about, civility?" he asks, lifting the tray to his nose to make sure his stomach's not going to rebel over something it usually likes. " _Mmm_. Why didn't you mention it was a red snapper maki kind of day? I would've gotten up to let you in."

"You would've hurt yourself," Hermann retorts, already tearing into his pile of sad, over-refrigerated pickled ginger like there's no tomorrow (even though now there totally _is_ ). "Points to Officer Choi for exercising foresight. He mentioned you ate what he'd given you. Points to _you_ for exercising some self-preservation for once." He swallows and glances sheepishly up at Newton; he's just been observed greedily wolfing down his dinner _and_ talking with his mouth full, so his insistence re: propriety now looks pretty hypocritical. This doesn't happen often, but it's a good look on him.

Newton laughs so hard that he seizes up in pain, and Hermann has to lunge for Newton's half-consumed sushi tray before it ends up on the floor. "Oh, jeez," he says, wiping his eyes. " _Whew_."

"I'm glad to know this visit has proved amusing," says Hermann, rising stiffly. He chucks the tray back in Newton's lap—not _too_ carelessly, but hard enough to splash soy sauce everywhere—and moves toward the door. "I've been just as bored as you have, no doubt, and _this_ is how I'm repaid?"

"Hey, no, come back," Newton says, left-handedly trying to pluck up another piece of maki. He ditches his chopsticks on the floor and uses his fingers instead. "It's just, you looked. I mean."

Hermann shakes his head, lips quirked in furious disapproval. "Ingrate," he hisses, and leaves.

 _I'm so great at keeping people in here today, wow,_ Newton thinks glumly, picking apart the last few pieces on his tray. Deconstructed, they don't look nearly as appetizing, so he eats the ginger instead. _Especially ones I really just want to keep in my bed forever in spite of the fact that, in reality, I've probably just managed to turn the fuck_ off _forever by the sheer fact of having drifted with them._

Newton considers this passive revelation for a while before deciding it's the most depressing thing that's ever happened to him. Another half-pill is only going to help part of this situation, namely the stupid pain in his chest, but he takes it anyway (because who _knows_ now which source of distress is causing said reprisal of discomfort anyway: the literal or the figurative?)

He ponders the depth of his fuck-up and the fact that, if Tendo's making dorm-calls across the board, then the gossip-mill must be running full throttle. He's the butt of a million jokes by now, and he deserves them all.

The next knock to which Newton wakes is curiously staid; his clock informs him it's midnight.

"Door's open," he says, raising his voice just enough. "Come in. Don't mind the soy sauce."

"Do I want to know why there _is_ soy sauce?" Ada asks, quietly strolling over in her well-worn Dansko clogs that remind him of every wannabe hipster graduate student in Cambridge _ever_. She looks him over, pats his cheek and his forehead with the back of her hand, and generally makes like she feels really sorry for him: her friend-face, not her professional face. "Well. You look like shit."

"There's soy sauce because Hermann brought sushi for dinner," Newton tells her. "It was romantic."

"Nah," she says, sitting down beside him on the bed. "It was a clusterfuck, am I right? Poor thing."

"The funny part is, I'd thought I fucked up because I went and, you know, drifted with an alien corpse-scrap all by my lonesome," Newton says before he even realizes what's coming out of his mouth, "but the _truth_ is that I fucked up because I let him do it with me the second time. That's a backstage pass he was never meant to have. Now he knows what's hiding in the wings."

"Jesus Christ, you're stupid," Ada replies, ruffling his hair like she's not even taking him seriously. "Stupid on _drugs_ , you melodramatic fuck. That's a regular load of bollocks you just said there."

"Says the person who _gave_ me the drugs," Newton reminds her, yawning. "Can I have more?"

"Sure you can," says Ada, patting his shoulder. "When the Breach re-opens. Otherwise, you read the bottle. No refills. This is just a stop-gap, got it? The other benefit is that it keeps you out of trouble while Hermann clears the deck paperwork-wise. Herc knows you would've delayed it."

"You jerks," Newton sighs, but his heart's not in it; he feels sleepy again. "Where's Jung-Won?"

"Out in the city," Ada replies, her features tightening somewhat. "Zie volunteered for clean-up."

"Have you noticed J-Techs are selfless like that?" Newton asks, intending the statement in jest, but finding his delivery sounds curiously plaintive. "Cleaning up K-Blue, ministering to the wounded?"

"Jung's gonna kick your butt when I mention you said that," replies Ada, rising. "So will Tendo."

"Kiss zir for me," Newton mutters, rolling over into his soy-sauce splattered pillow. "Only not."

"Go to sleep," Ada sighs, half-assedly tossing the sheet across him. "I'll swing by in the morning."

"Are you ever going to tell me what you did with those forceps I loaned you?" Newton yawns.

"No," says Ada, on her way out the door, closing it with deliberation as she exits. "I am _not_."

 _Even though you cared enough to make sure I didn't die or freeze my ass off on your watch, Hermann, maybe all you ever really wanted from me was a hate-fuck,_ Newton thinks, unable to keep his stinging eyes open. _Screw favorite blanket_. _You owe me a pillowcase._

 

*

 

The next morning, Newton is surprised he doesn't feel _quite_ as shitty as he had for the past seventy-two hours, so that's cause for celebration in the form of a hot shower and the donning of more clothes than just boxers and a t-shirt. He's sure his threadbare cargo pants are going to offend any authority figures whose paths he might cross on his way to the refectory; he'll count that as a win.

He doesn't pass Herc in the halls, which is kind of disappointing, although he _does_ pass Mako and Raleigh coming from the opposite direction. They've both got trays overladen with breakfast food, and Max is trotting obediently along behind them. Newton knows Mako's fondness for the dog pre-dates her fondness for Raleigh; she'd dated Chuck for a while, he seems to recall.

Mako fobs her tray off on Raleigh in one smooth gesture as soon as she spots Newton, and then races ahead to make sure she reaches him first. She catches his left arm, slows him, and folds him in a careful embrace. The gesture is formal, but genuine, so Newton pats the middle of her back.

"You got us out alive," she murmurs, letting go enough to draw back and smile at him. "Wise."

"Yeah, that was some quick thinking," Raleigh says awkwardly, but he's smiling, too. "Thanks."

"Hermann wouldn't agree it was _wise_ , but you're welcome," Newton says, waving it off with his braced right hand. "Can I tempt you to guys come eat with me, or is that overly optimistic?"

"Later," says Mako, winking at him, and takes her tray back from Raleigh. "Let's have dinner?"

"Dinner," Raleigh repeats, and it takes Mako kicking his ankle to drive the point home. "Right."

"So, um, have fun!" Newton calls after them as they pass, bending to scratch the dog's head as it trots by. That's going to be one fucking awkward booty-call, what with the ex's pet present.

For almost nine o'clock, the refectory isn't all that busy, but it isn't deserted, either. There's a line for toast, pancakes, eggs, and the like, so he sidles up behind a couple of hangar crew-members he doesn't recognize and gives them nods in turn. Way at the end of the line, he spots Ada and Jung-Won, so maybe he'll go sit with them if they'll have him. He's picking through the drinks cooler when he hears Tendo's voice not that far ahead in line: it's pitched low like he means business.

"Yeah, but think about it," he's saying, with an air of chastisement. "You both needed that."

"The last thing I need is to be mocked," Hermann replies waspishly, "in return for kindness."

Newton freezes with his fingertips on a bottle of juice, but he recovers quickly and snatches it up to his chest. He pulls in tighter behind the crewmen so he won't be noticed. He wants to hear this.

"He would've done the same if you'd been the one worse off," Tendo says. "He doesn't hate you."

"No," says Hermann, hesitantly, "but he's far too flippant for my taste after . . . after what's past."

Newton tucks his chin against his chest and meets Ling's eyes as she hands him a tin mess-plate with two pancakes, some eggs, and several pieces of bacon on it. "Thanks," he mutters, straining to listen. The crewmen next to him are chatting with the server next to Ling. Tendo's scolding again.

"For fuck's sake, Hermann, take care of him!  He's got cracked ribs, some pretty nasty bruises, and he's all scraped up besides.  He wants you, my man.  _Loves_ you.  That's not helping much, either."

Forget butter, forget imitation maple syrup, forget _everything_. Newton wheels out of line with the bottle of apple juice trapped between his arm and his chest and his plate pinched perilously between left thumb and index finger. He doesn't want to wait around to hear Hermann's response. He's hungry and feeling something like _okay_ for the first time in days. He doesn't need confirmation—

Newton knows better than to risk metaphorical transformation into a pillar of salt.  The whole way back to his quarters, he pointedly does _not_ glance over his shoulder. There's no point to locking his door, either, so he lets it slam shut of its own accord behind him.  He kicks out of his unlaced boots, goes over to sit down at his desk, and hopefully eats like a grown-up.

The bacon is perfect (Ling's bacon, guilt incarnate, is _always_ perfect), but the pancakes are dry and unappetizing.

After wolfing down the crispy cultural contraband, manages to eat three quarters of one pancake before throwing in the towel.  His chest and his shoulder don't feel that great, so he takes the other half of the painkiller he'd split the night before.  He walks over to the bed and lies down on top of the skewed covers, sighing with listless dread.  
  
The abrupt, conciliatory knock on his door is perfectly timed.  
  
"Newton, may I come in?" Hermann asks, only slightly raising his voice.  "Unless you're otherwise occupied.  Or sleeping.  It's just that Officer Choi had spotted you leaving the refectory, and I—"  
  
_I thought you'd never ask_ , Newton thinks, getting back to his feet with a grunt, and goes over to meet his maker.  "Of course," he says, opening the door wide. " _Fühl dich wie zuhause._ "

Hermann nods and steps inside, blinking as if he hadn't expected to hear their other shared first language. He seats himself in Newton's chair without being invited, propping his cane against the desk, and Newton sits down directly across from him on the edge of the mattress.

"I see you haven't finished your breakfast," Hermann says. He's not the best at small-talk, so the enormity of this gesture is clear. "Would you like to finish eating first? We can talk after that."

"No, I'm finished," Newton reassures him, uneasily fiddling with the fastenings of his wrist-brace before tearing them open. "I'm gonna take this off, though. It's itchy, Ada's best intentions aside."

"Stop that," Hermann interjects, batting Newton's left hand away, and takes the right one in both of his own. He finishes peeling back the Velcro, loosens the straps, and carefully extricates Newton's hand from its casing. By outward appearance, it _looks_ fine, but if he moves it, there's pain in spades. "Let me," Hermann murmurs, stroking both back and palm so gently Newton shivers.

"I guess I'm still cold," Newton says, and before he can backtrack on such a stupid, _reckless_ statement, Hermann's leaning forward and using one of his hands to cup Newton's cheek while he kisses him soft and open-mouthed. Newton blinks, helplessly gasping, but it only takes him a few seconds to close his eyes and lift his left hand to curl around the back of Hermann's neck.

"Then I'll warm you again," Hermann whispers against Newton's mouth, "if you'll have me."

Newton's mind starts to whir even faster than its habitual frenetic baseline. Here it is: Hermann's best shot at following Tendo's advice, the pick-up and prelude to finally scoring. Newton nods, breathless; _yeah_ he'll take this, no question, even if it means gearing up for heartbreak. He's _earned_ this, dammit, and Hermann's earned it, too. Besties fuck sometimes, right? And so it goes . . .

"I can't do this hard and fast or anything," Newton tells him, letting go of Hermann's neck and pulling his injured hand out from between Hermann's so he can gather up the hem of his t-shirt.

"For God's sake," Hermann whispers, " _why_ would I want that? You're hurt, and even if you weren't, I . . . " He swallows, helping Newton out of his shirt, and studies Newton's eyes while he unbuttons Newton's fly and slips his hand inside. "Lie back for me," he says, his fingers finding damp, taut skin, and Newton's breath hitches at the feel of being stroked to full hardness in Hermann's palm.

" _Shit_ ," Newton gasps, and his eyes are stinging again and _why now_? "The other night. You heard me."

"I'm only sorry I woke too late," Hermann says with regret, reluctantly withdrawing his hand, and rises to shed his blazer. Newton watches through the faint, ridiculous glaze that's just about rendering his glasses moot; once Hermann has removed his sweater-vest and gotten his shirt unbuttoned, he focuses on Newton's face again, reaches for him when he notices tears.

"Oh, darling, _don't_ ," he pleads, removing Newton's glasses with shaking hands, and that word escaping his lips—it matters, fuck, it _does_ —is what steals Newton's breath as Hermann finishes undressing them both, lays him down at last.

Hermann's body is warm against him in all the right places, soothing in light of Newton's persistent aches. Hermann leans down to kiss him, stretching so that he brings his full weight to rest, and it's only once they're chest to chest that Newton can no longer suppress a grunt of pain.

Hermann jerks back, pale, and touches Newton's face.

" _Hah_ , sorry," Newton apologizes, wishing the goddamn painkiller would kick _in_ already. "Here, what about . . . " He rolls onto his left side, tugging Hermann in snug so he's settled on his right; the reversal sends a stab of panic through Newton's gut, because now Hermann's the one in discomfort, and it shows. "Fuck, Hermann, sorry, _God_ , I swear I _didn't_ forget—"

Hermann cuts him short with a kiss, taking hold of Newton's calf in order to drape Newton's leg over his hip, pull him in tighter. Newton sobs into Hermann's mouth, can't even _breathe_ ; he loves Hermann, loves that even though they’re miserable and exhausted this feels like a foregone conclusion, a glorious _imperative_ in the face of what they've accomplished.

"I have loved you," says Hermann, as if absorbing Newton's thoughts, "for so _very long_ —" He brings Newton's right hand up to his lips, kisses his palm from heart to heel, and the circle's complete.

They haven't been able to move much, not nearly as much as Newton can tell (by the urgency of Hermann's teeth and tongue at his earlobe, the side of his neck) Hermann would've liked, but _he's_ been far enough gone ever since Hermann unfastened his pants that it was only _ever_ going to end quickly. " _Hermann_ ," he whimpers, turning his head, nuzzling Hermann's infuriatingly smooth cheek. "Hermann, just—fucking _kiss me_ , I'm—"

Hermann starts at the sound of Newton's voice, takes a shuddering breath, and does as he's told. He releases Newton's injured wrist—his grasp there had remained light, mindful, even as lost as he seems—sets his hand against Newton's hip, splays his long fingers, and then lets them dip down to press at the small of Newton's back. All it takes is _this_ : one gesture of possessive certainty and the instinctive jerk of his hips. Newton's shaking, coming in hard, helpless spurts between their bellies before he can give fair warning.

Hermann moans like _he's_ the one who's let go, although he keeps kissing Newton just like he's been asked to do. Newton can't decide if his head's clearing or if he's never going to find his way back down from this particular high; he remembers the painkiller he'd taken and gasps for breath, realizing it's partly why he wonders if this isn't real. Hermann's close, though, so he struggles to focus.

"Can I suck you?" Newton asks, biting Hermann's lower lip for emphasis, and that earns him another encouraging sound. "God, Hermann, _can_ I—?"

Hermann almost squeezes the breath out of Newton when his orgasm hits, but he remembers even in the midst of it why that's a _terrible_ idea, and the groan he muffles against the side of Newton's neck is fraught with apologetic laughter. _Would've had it like this from the start_ , Newton thinks, rubbing Hermann's back. _We're the punchline to all those jokes, and at least I'm not alone._

They lie there for a while, lazy and sticky and hurting a _lot_ , but Newton's content to kiss Hermann's forehead over and over until he can think of something to say. Hermann opens his mouth first.

"Perhaps later," he says, catching hold of Newton's right hand before he can use it to comb through Hermann's ridiculous hair. "I'd sooner pay _you_ some more attention, if it's all the same."

"I have this dinner-date thing with Mako her new boy-toy," Newton mutters. "Thoughts?"

"Then I suppose I'll have to join you," says Hermann, attempting to seem put-upon, but he doesn't sound anywhere _near_ as disappointed as Newton thinks he has the right to be (given his day-long lounge-in-bed agenda now faces an interruption that will require clothes). "Today's salmon, if I'm not mistaken."

"Get any more soy sauce on my shit and I will _end_ you," Newton warns. "I don't care how talented a blanket you are, okay? You owe me a pillowcase. Ada will back me up on this."

Hermann gives Newton a befuddled look, rolling onto his back before fishing around on the floor for something with which to clean up. "Like this one?" he asks, waving a specimen from the pile of several weeks' used linens that Newton hasn't carted to the hamper, and starts mopping them with it.

"Whatever," Newton sighs, resigned. "You owe me a whole freaking bedroom set."

"Yes," replies Hermann, finishing the job with fond resolve. "Whatever you wish."

 


End file.
